Real Angels Wear Trenchcoats
by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: What happens when Sam and Dean find Britannia Angel unconscious in the middle of Washington DC? They take him captive thinking he's a demon, of course! What follows is absolute chaos as the brothers slowly realize that maybe what England was fighting is coming for them, and maybe America isn't happy that they've taken England. UK x Fem!US and some US x Fem!UK
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: **

_**In which no one seems capable of answering the bloody phone**_

_ You have reached the voicemail of: _Why the bloody hell does it want be to say my na- ***BEEP*. **

"Hiya Artie! So, Allie and I are having an epic-tastic Christmas party this year! We totally want you to come, too! Matthew and Maddie are gonna be here too, so-"

"Give me the phone, Alfred!"

"But sis-"

"_Alfred." _

"Fine."

"Hi Arthur, this is Amelia (the sane America, remember?)."

"ALLIE!"

"Anywho, we're having a big get-together for Christmas this year and I- ahem WE would really like you to come. And just between you and me, I think Al has a huge crush on Rosa, so you should bring her, too. We can have both the Enlgands! It'll be great. Please come… yeah… I, uh, yeah… Iloveyouandreallyreallywannaseeyousopleasecome! Okay? See ya!"

_**Click. **_

___You have reached the voicemail of: _AMERICA! Shut up, Al, this is Amelia Jo-" ***BEEP*. **

"Alfred! My name is not 'Artie' or 'Iggy' or any other ridiculous nick-names you make up! I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland! Is that so hard to say?! Hmm, I suppose it is… then just call me England or Arthur if you must, not whatever the hell you feel like calling me! And Amelia-"

***BEEP* **

_You have reached the voicemail of: _AMERICA! Shut up, Al this is Amelia Jo-" ***BEEP* **

"My apologies, Amelia, I did not intend to do nothing but yell at Alfred through your voicemail. Yes, well… Dash it all, voicemail is awkward. Whoever came up with such an infernal contraption? It is absolutely impossible to have a decent conversation like this! Well then…. Rosa's flying into Ontario and driving down with Matthew and Madeline. I will be flying into Washington DC next Tuesday. If you still want me to come over, that is.. Well then. Goodbye, luv."

_**Click. **_

_This is Dean Winchester. Leave a message. _***BEEP***

"Sam, Dean, ya idjits, what the hell are you doing in Washington DC? That place is swarmin' with demons. Get your butts back here and get some backup before you start chasin' the big fish. I swear; you pair of idiots are going to send me to an early grave. This is Bobby, by the way, if you couldn't tell by how much more sensible my voice sounds than whatever crappy advice you two are following. Call me back."

_**Click. **_

_You have reached the voicemail of: _Why does the voice want me to say my name? ***BEEP* **

"Hey, Cas, this is Sam. Listen, we're on the tail of something big here in DC and we'd like a little advice. I'm afraid that it's going to run if we corner it, but Dean says otherwise. We think it's a demon, but it's vessel-hopping like nobody's business. It's like it can't stay in one body for more than twenty-four hours or so. And the vessels always die within a few hours of the thing leaving. Anyway, if you know anything, let us know. Dean says we're gonna try and corner it in the warehouse district tonight, so, if you could stop by or something…"

_**Click. **_

___You have reached the voicemail of: _Why does the voice want me to say my name?

"Holy crap, Cas, we've caught something downright freakish! Get your angel ass over here and tell us this is your cousin or something cuz, I'm not sure we can kill it, and it looks pretty damn angel-like from this angle, and you know we're not exactly heaven's gold-star students right now. So, call back, get over here, I don't care. Just do it."

"Hi, this is Sam. Dean forgot to mention that we're at the Paradise Motel. Or in the Impala. Depends on when you get this message. And seriously, Cas this is pretty weird."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One: **

**A demon, two hunters, and the United Kingdom walk into a bar…**

"Dude, watch it!" snapped Dean, glowering grimly at the blond man he had just run into.

Green eyes flashed angrily as the other man glared back at the hunter, "Watch where you're going, you bloody berk."

The blond was gone before Dean could scrounge up a truly soul-crushing insult. That was okay. Dean was sure it would have been great, when he came up with it. Yep, he definitely won that confrontation. Except… "Dude, what the hell did he just call me?"

Sam, standing slightly behind Dean was currently giving him the look that clearly said: 'you are a troglodyte who has obviously just crawled out from under the rock that birthed you, but you aren't educated enough to know what 'troglodyte' means, so I'll simplify it by putting all of that into a very expressive _look_.' And somehow Sammy still managed to sum it all up with one world-weary, long-suffering sigh. "He's British; he just called you a clumsy idiot. An opinion I'm starting to agree with."

"Yeah, well, next time he should speak English," Dean grouched.

"He was speaking English, now could you get out of the doorway and just go inside the bar now?"

"Aw, Sammy, getting cold out there?" Dean smirked over his shoulder at his little brother.

"YES! I'm freezing my ass off out here, Dean!"

"That could be interesting…" Dean continued to torment his sibling.

"DEAN! GET OUT OF THE DAMN DOORWAY!"

"…and incredibly horrifying," Dean finished his earlier thought, "I mean, really, think of the children." Despite his taunting, he stepped further into the hazy, dimly lit bar, allowing Sam to step out of the snow.

"It's two in the morning, in a bar in DC. I don't think there're any children around to be concerned about," Sam quipped, trying to rub warmth into his hands.

Dean whipped around, a fake grin plastered across his face. "Then, you wanna take another trip outside?"

"No!" Sam scooted away from the elder Winchester, "You are a sadist."

"Yeah, and I'm a sadist who's gonna catch a demon, bitchy little brothers and grumpy Brits be damned. Let's roll, Sammy."

And just like that, Sam was once again swept up in his brother's wake as Dean tromped deeper into the smoky confines of the bar.

…..

Arthur Kirkland, also known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (or Iggy depending on who you asked) was in a foul mood. His flight had been delayed by thirteen hours due to a series of freak lightning storms in the DC area. They had been forced to land in Virginia and wait around that airport for half a day until the skies were clear enough to fly. Arthur, not being a US citizen (despite having a very good and frequently used diplomatic pass to America), was confined to a single airport terminal with the other foreigners until the DC skies cleared.

England was very accustomed to sleeping on the ground. Or, more specifically, forest floors coated in a generous helping of soft moss and scattered leaves, smelling fresh and wild. He was _not _accustomed to sleeping on the floor of an airport terminal. It did _not _help that his magical senses took it upon themselves to ever-so-helpfully inform him exactly what was _living _in the grungy carpet he was resting his head upon.

England did not sleep well.

And now he was stuck wandering the streets of DC, bar-hopping (as he did not have a hotel room) until the American siblings got back to him about picking him up. He was swiftly running out of bars he could sit in at these hours of the night. Last call was being sounded in any decent place. Anywhere else… well, if he had to… after all, he was a bloody _country. _He survived the Blitz. He was a pirate. He could handle a few humans of ill repute.

Sighing to himself, Arthur shoved his hands in his jacket pockets (what on earth had possessed him to wear his black leather duster? He hadn't worn this since his punk phase.), Arthur hunched his shoulders against the biting East Coast wind. Suddenly a prickling shivered across his skin. Like every single hair on his body was on end. He tuned into his magical senses, momentarily curious.

An explosion of sight, scent, sound, taste and touch battered his senses. He nearly cried out, but he did not, his better instincts taking control of his body. He stood stock still, straight and strong in the face of the onslaught of power. With tiny, mincing movements of soul and mind, England dimmed his perceptions down to more manageable levels.

Wow… that was unexpected and unpleasant.

"_Show yourself, fiend_." Arthur muttered, voice grinding out the words in old English, infusing them with the tiniest bit of his power.

With a howl that scraped across his tender magical senses, a billowing black cloud Arthur knew too well from the old days appeared. But instead of standing and fighting the way it normally would when faced by a creature of England's age and power, it hurtled toward him. A strange keening filled the air, both in the physical realm and in the magical one surrounding Arthur, a sound of pain and terror as only a demon can experience or express.

Suddenly confronted with a demon driven mad (or madder, it was hard to tell with the foul creatures) with pain and fear, England stared as the dark cloud zeroed in on _him. _It careened his direction, clearly intent of taking him as a vessel. Arthur had no idea what would happen to his people or his sister if he were possessed. He did not want to find out.

Out of options and out of time, England had no recourse than to do what he had resisted doing for centuries. He finally let the power lurking in the back of his consciousness in, granting it full access to his body. It surrounded him, filled him up, drank him down. It was everywhere around him and it was an empty hollowness in the center of his being.

The world vanished in a flash of white light.

…

When Sam said he thought the demon might run, this wasn't really what he was thinking. Of course the demon had to be possessing the bartender. And of _course _the bartender was female and incredibly hot. And wearing a leather skirt so short Sam wasn't sure it counted as clothing anymore. And Dean, being Dean, could not resist the lure of a woman in that state of dress. Or undress, if Sam was being truly honest with the side of him that had had morals once upon a time.

Sighing a long-suffering sigh designed specifically to let Dean know just how inconvenient and annoying he found Dean's distraction, Sam plopped himself on a barstool and propped his chin on his fist.

Dean remained unfazed by his brother's body language and slightly-less-than-subtle vocalizations. The closest he came to responding to Sam's second long-suffering sigh was a raised eyebrow and the comment: "Y'know, if you tried sighing less and picking up chicks more, people might not think you're gay as often."

Sam would have responded, he even had a comment ready on the tip of his tongue, but Dean's attention had zeroed in on the sexy bartender. Raising his eyebrows slightly and looking up from hunched shoulders and a lowered brow, Dean focused all his powers of seduction into his one (and only) pickup line, "Hey, how you doing?"

Sam had heard that line over and over again through the years. When he was little he had tried to keep a running tally of how many girls Dean used that line on over the course of a school year. Little Sammy gave up by November. The line had inspired various reactions in the fairer sex. Giggling, flirting, a kiss if the girl was really bold, a one-night-stand if they were hanging out in _that _part of town, even flat-out rejection and a death threat or two (hunter women were tough and scary as all hell). But it was safe to say that Sam had never, ever, in his many years of tagging along as his big brother attempted to pick up women, seen _this reaction. _

The woman, who minutes before had been flirting hot-and-heavy with burly bikers and striding confidently through the bar on teetering heels, blanched and let out a high-pitched scream. High-pitched was an understatement. This was shatter-the-sound-barrier-and-any-nearby-bits-of-g lass shrill. The dingy mirror behind the bar and all the glass bottles perched on shelves in front of it splintered and exploded outward in a hurricane of flying shards.

Sam and Dean reacted quickly, ducking beneath the bar, Dean grabbing Sam and yanking him down when he didn't seek cover fast enough for the senior Winchester's liking. But despite Dean's intervention, Sam still caught sight of the woman holding her ears and coughing up hoarse cries of pain. For a second before he made it beneath the bar, Sam and the woman locked eyes.

Her eyes weren't normal. But, they weren't like any demon eyes Sam had ever seen. Instead of the single all-encompassing black pupil of a demon, these were a swirling vortex of black pupil, slightly yellowed whites and murky blue. It was like someone had dropped all the colors of a normal human eye in a blender and hit the 'mix' button. Frankly, it was disgusting.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of hiding beneath a bar and listening to inhuman cries of pain interlacing with the more natural sounds of drunken human panic all around them, everything fell silent. The patrons (those who were sober enough to be awake and mobile) had all fled. All that was left were the two hunters and the woman behind the bar. Moving as one, Sam and Dean peered over the lip of the counter.

The bartender still stood behind the bar, her head in her hands, fingers tangled in her long black hair. She shuddered as she wrenched her head back and forth, attempting to kill the pain ringing in her skull. Wet, choking sounds gurgled from her throat and blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. Sam felt tempted to vomit. Yes, he had seen some particularly grotesque things in his life, many of which would top this for sheer gore-volume. However, there was something particularly stomach-wrenchingly sad about this scene. He was almost glad when the woman's head snapped back with an audible crackle-pop, her mouth opening as the demon within fled in a cloud of black smoke.

"Damn!" cursed Dean, "Sam, move your ass, it's running!"

Grumbling under his breath, Sam disentangled himself from the wreckage that was once a perfectly decent bar, and dashed after his brother. How had Dean managed to get all the way to the door before he was past the bar stools? Still mentally grouching, Sam followed his brother into the chilly night air; the pair racing down the near-empty street after the cloud of black smoke.

They almost lost it twice as it wove between buildings and under street lights, seeking out a new vessel. Panting, Sam yelled to his brother, "Why do you think it hasn't just gone back to hell? I mean, most of the time they don't vessel-hop unless there's a vessel right there. They normally just go back to hell and lurk around there until something better comes along."

"Only you, Sammy would use a word like 'lurk' when we're running down at street at two in the morning after a monster no one believes in." Dean said, looking over his shoulder at his brother.

Sam, only half listening to Dean's quip, was looking over his head at a point where their street hit another one. A man stood on the corner. Pausing, confused, his head swiveling to look both ways as if lost, this guy was prime vessel material for their runaway demon.

"Dean!" barked Sam, "Vessel ahead!"

"Huh?" Dean's attention snapped back forward, "You gotta be kidding me," he growled, pulling the Colt from his belt.

"Will that thing work on it when it's not in a vessel?" Sam asked.

"We'll just have to find out," Dean ground out between his teeth as he cocked and aimed the old gun.

Even from slightly behind his brother, Sam could see that it would take a miracle for the bullet to so much as nick the black smoke-cloud before it hit the guy on the corner. Sam felt his heart twist in his chest as he locked his eyes on the figure of the guy that was soon to become their new target, trying to memorize what he looked like as a human before they would have to kill him.

Nothing would have prepared him for what happened next. The man on the corner turned around to face the oncoming demon-cloud. His eyes seemed to glow a strange, electric green, flashing huge and inhuman in his face. A white light grew around him, steadily building into a blazing inferno of brightness and a _presence _that smashed outward, crushing everything in its path. Not knowing what else to do, but having enough experience with uber-powerful non-human crap, Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder before the older Winchester could careen into whatever that glow-fest was turning into.

Both brothers closed their eyes tightly against the onslaught of power. They fell to their knees, pressed to the ground by the sheer force of the glowing _thing _in front of them. Sam took light, shallow breaths, reminding his lungs to move as the energy all around them threatened to stop his breath. After a second or so the hot white blaze beyond his eyelids faded and was replaced with a warmer, gentler glow. A strange smell wrapped around them, like a forest after a rain. Sam was momentarily reminded of the way the English countryside had smelled after a big storm. It made him homesick for Stanford and the time when getting his study-abroad credits organized had been his biggest concern.

Lost in memories of his short time in England, Sam missed when the glow dimmed to see-able levels, then went out almost completely. It took Dean roughly shaking his shoulder and barking his name for Sam to snap out of it enough to take a look at what had happened to the block around them.

The demon was gone, vaporized into the tiniest of sulfur particles, and even the scent of those was overwhelmed by the English-countryside-smell. Blinking hazily in the sudden dimness, Sam didn't realize that Dean had wandered off until he heard his brother's voice from a few yards away.

"Sam! Get over here and look at this!"

Shaking his head at the sheer volume of power that could have so thoroughly destroyed a demon, Sam stood and wandered over to Dean. The older Winchester was staring down at the unconscious figure of on the sidewalk. He looked up at his brother with a lopsided smile, lines of tension around his eyes belaying the expression's apparent carefree attitude. "Well, Sammy I think we've caught ourselves an angel."

Sam blinked and looked closer at the prone form below them. It was still glowing ever so softly. And it looked like an angel, like the legit children's book version of an angel. Needless to say, it looked nothing like the real thing.

It didn't even have a trenchcoat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: England Wrapped in Duct Tape, Dean Praying and Other Unnatural Disasters**

Arthur Kirkland, also known as The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, awoke in the dark, tied up, and hungry enough to eat a cow, hooves and all. But before he could commence his hunt for an edible bovine, he needed to get out of the trunk of this car.

"France, if this is another one of your pranks I will kill you in your sleep with a dull spork and force-feed your remains to the kraken!" England snarled, ramming his bound feet into the trunk lid. "Just see if I won't, you bloody, insufferable, nudist Frog!"

The last few words of that sentence made England pause and check himself over, making sure he was still dressed, which he was. However, if was not in the clothes he remembered wearing… A little bit of contortion allowed him to peer at his chest. The miniscule amount of light which leaked in through the crack between the trunk lid and the car's bumper allowed him to see… Dammit. Dammit, dammit, BLOODY HELL DAMMIT! He was wearing a white toga, hemmed in gold embroidery. And the wings… they were rather uncomfortably pinned against the trunk's lid in this position, the feathers falling forward and tickling his face.

He was in Britannia Angel form. In a car's trunk. But… how? When he let Britannia Angel take over, he took the backseat in his own mind. But if he still had wings and a toga, why was _he _the one in control of his body? Panic began to trickle into his mind as he realized just what he had gotten himself into. His mind in Britannia Angel's body could only mean one thing, after all… He had been captured by hunters.

England returned to bashing his feet against the door, ignoring the creak of his sandals' leather straps as they protested the rough treatment. His wings fluttered behind him, straining against their bonds, the duct tape which held them pinned to his back pulling painfully at the feathers. The car, which, he realized, had been moving beneath him all this time, slowed to an abrupt halt. England, not being secured in any way other than the duct tape holding his ankles together and pinning his wings and arms to his sides, slammed into the trunk's lid with a painful crunch.

Outside, England could faintly hear the sound of two car doors opening and at least two pairs of feet tramping over to the trunk imprisoning England. Several voices conferred, seeming to grow more and more irritated with each other as the conversation went on. Finally, one voice cut the other off with an authoritative bark and with a click of a lock, the trunk was wrenched open.

England suddenly realized just how much he _didn't _want to be outside right now. The sun was positively _blinding_ in this form. How the hell did Britannia Angel stand it? No one deserved to have senses this sensitive. The glaring sunlight outside the trunk was like being lanced in the eye, the sounds of cars on a distant road an unbearable racket, not to mention the god-awful smells clinging to the salvage yard his captors had parked in the middle of.

His captors… Hoping to distract from the horrible pain of the sunlight, England focused on the two young men staring down at him. Well, one was staring, the other was glaring. Suspiciously. As if England didn't already realize that they were hostile from the copious amounts of duct tape attached to his body, which was currently occupying a trunk. This was worse than that time he let the Americas drag him to Las Vegas… Right, he needed to learn as much about his captors as possible if he was going to escape this incredibly irritating situation, and get back to his regular, _wingless _body.

The shorter of the two men was certainly the most hostile. He had short, slightly scruffy brown hair, though not nearly as unruly as England's own mop. "You one of Raphael's flunkies?" he demanded, "Or are you a demon? Cuz I really don't like demons."

"Dean," the taller man, with long-ish light brown hair chastised the short, hostile one, "I'm pretty sure he's not a demon. That's not a human body."

'Dean' cocked an eyebrow at his companion, reached forward, and without preamble, grabbed one of England's wings and yanked on it, dragging England's torso upwards in the process, as the wings were pinned to his back by copious amounts of duct tape.

Suppressing a yelp of pain or indignation (that would have been embarrassing), England settled for glaring his harshest glare at the duo who had captured him. The tall fellow was now poking at the wing grasped in Dean's fist. "Are these real?" he asked inquisitively.

"Of course they're real, you bloody American gits," England growled, "They're attached to my body, aren't they?"

Neither hunter seemed all that interested in England's input. "What about this thing, it real too?" demanded Dean, grabbing England's halo, which always floated above his head while in this form, and shaking it. Something akin to full-body static shock flashed through the core of England's being at the feeling of a human manhandling his halo.

"BLOODY HELL!" he cursed, "Get your hands off my halo!"

His eyes must have glowed or something equally strange, because Dean dropped the halo quickly and jumped backward as if scalded, shaking the hand that had seconds ago been wrapped around the golden band. "Holy crap on a cracker! What the hell are you?"

England narrowed his eyes at this irritating human. "I am…" hmm, perhaps shouting his true identity at this pair of idiots was not a well thought out plan. He thought fast. "An angel of the lord." It was sort of true… After all, his boss was his _lord, _just not _The Lord. _He hoped he wouldn't get smited for this. He hadn't run into an angel since Elizabethan times, and the last encounter hadn't been pretty. Apparently the heavenly host thought England to have been mentally unstable. He thought this was massively unfair considering that he hadn't _asked _his boss to break with the Vatican and give him a religious identity crisis in the process. Honestly, Anne Boelyn was not that hot. But no one ever seemed to ask England's opinion on the matter. They just ran around wreaking havoc. It was extraordinarily irritating.

The dimwitted duo in front of him did not appear to be buying his 'angel of the lord' excuse. Huh, maybe they were smarted than they seemed. The tall one looked at the Dean, "Could he be?"

Dean looked almost as irritated as England felt. "Dude, how the hell would I know?"

The tall one shrugged, "You're the one with an angel on speed dial."

Wait, what? England did not like the sound of this. A pair of hunters who had actually _seen _an angel _in person. _They couldn't be… the next words out of Dean's mouth proved it.

"Fine, I'll call up Cas."

England couldn't resist his incredulity, "Cas? As in-?"

"Yup, Castiel, angel of the Lord and royal pain in my ass."

England flopped back into the trunk. _'Just bloody kill me now.' _He thought. _'I got myself captured by the Winchesters and they're about to call down an angel that Britannia Angel managed to piss off the last time I let him take over.' _

"You two almost ended the world," England growled, "You almost ended the fucking _world. _Do you know how hard you made my life the last few years?!" his voice climbed in volume as he continued to speak until the last few words were a roar.

"Yeah, about that…" Dean was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

The tall one, who so far had remained nameless, sighed a long suffering sigh, "Dean, just call Cas."

Dean shrugged and slapped his hands together in a rough parody of a praying position, "Our angel, who art occasionally slumming in heaven, Castiel be thy name, thy feathery ass come, our will be done, here on earth instead of heaven. Forgive me for this stupid-ass prayer, as it was not my idea. Amen."

With the sound of muffled wingbeats (not so muffled for England, who still had Britannia Angel's heightened senses), a slightly scruffy man wearing a trenchcoat appeared behind the two hunters. "Dean. Sam." He said, voice low and gravelly.

Both hunters jumped in surprise and whipped around to face their heavenly guest. He simply stared levelly back at them. "Dean, your prayers border on the sacrilegious. You should attempt to curb your apparently innate urge to mock beings who far exceed you in power and strength."

"That takes all the fun out of it, Cas," Dean grinned and clapped the angel on the shoulder.

"Indeed," the angel deadpanned, a hint of reproachful sarcasm tingeing the words. He looked at the nation currently occupying the trunk and raised a single expressive eyebrow. "What is that thing in your trunk and why do all of you reek of witchcraft?"

England sighed. This was going to be long afternoon. "Castiel," he acknowledged the angelic visitor, "The Three are back."

The trenchcoat-wearing angel's gaze sharpened, "The _what?" _he asked; voice harsh and urgent.

"Yeah, the what?" Dean echoed, sounding less informed, but just as wary.

"The Three," England repeated himself. "Enter three witches. Double double, toil and trouble."

"Fire burn and cauldron bubble." Castiel's voice was grim.

"Something wicked this way comes?" the tall one, who must be 'Sam', finished, tone questioning, "Why are we quoting Shakespeare?"

"Because a few hundred years ago, Shakespeare sealed some nasty-ass stuff in his plays," a new voice commented from behind a pile of scrap. The crunch of heavy boots on gravel heralded the approach of one Bobby Singer, salvage yard owner and occasional fighter of evil. "And if the freakish thing in your trunk is any example, they're coming back with a vengeance." He rounded the corner holding a thick ancient book in both hands.

England furrowed his brows at the offensive comment. Sitting up in the trunk he leveled a harsh stare at Bobby, "Who the bloody shodding hell are you calling a 'freakish thing', you wanker?" he demanded.

Bobby raised his eyebrows a tiny, ironic fraction, "Well, lookie here, Dean, you've managed to catch something with a worse mouth on it than you." He turned his attention back on England. "What the hell are you and why the hell do you have wings? Don't you know that went out of style months ago? The angels these days wear trenchcoats and bad attitudes."

Castiel glanced at Dean, "Should I take offence to that?" he asked mildly.

Sam shook his head, "No more than usual, Cas."

The angel looked placated.

England sighed. "I may have mislead you. A bit. A lot. I lie. It happens. Ask my handful of friends. I'm not an honest person."

"So, you're a demon?" Sam asked.

Cas spoke at the same time as his human companion, "So, you're a human?"

England raised his eyes heavenward, belatedly realizing that praying for patience wasn't worth much when an angel was standing in front of him. Oh well, he had no freaking clue if he was Protestant or Catholic anyway. Any prayers he made would probably be nothing but gibberish. Dropping his gaze back to the quartet standing before him, England announced, in as level a tone as possible, "I'm a shodding _country. _I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I am the one who trapped the witches in Shakespeare's writing to begin with. I am the only chance you have to catch them again. So, for the love of tea, scones and all else that is holy, would you get this bloody duct tape off my wings and let me out of this damn trunk so I can change back to my normal form!"

The three humans in front of him blinked in surprise in nearly the exact same instant. Castiel was the only one who managed to articulate anything, "I am fairly certain that tea and scones are not holy," he said, completely seriously.

England wondered how far he would make it if he rolled out of the trunk and started hopping toward Washington DC. As it was, negotiations with this group did not look promising.

**Author's Note: I just realized that I haven't been doing author's notes on this story. I am very sorry, I will make more of an effort to talk to you in the future! First off, I am so sorry that it took me so long to update this. What can I say? School and life and craziness got in the way and I turned around and realized that I hadn't updated this story in over two weeks. **

**So how about that plot? It's starting to appear… right? Have no fear, the lovely Amelia will be making an appearance soon, and the connection between Britannia Angel and the angels as well as the story of the Three Witches will soon be explained. Anyone guess what play I got them from…? (I tried to make it as obvious as possible). If any of you have read my (as of yet incomplete) fic 'Rust and Pixie Dust' you will know that I like my Shakespeare references, so look forward to the witches. I just hope I can do them justice…**

**Please REVIEW! I love, love LOVE to hear from readers, so please review. I'll try to make chapter updates closer together in the future… See you next chapter!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3: **

**A Road Trip from Hell with a Tour Guide from Heaven**

"Alfred Jones, if you change the radio station one more time I am kicking you out of this car. _Literally kicking, _mind you. As in I will shove you out of that door while we are speeding down this highway at top speed-"

"Rosa! Wrong side of the road!"

"Who asked you, Amelia?"

"SHUT UP, ROSA, LOOK AT THE ROAD!"

"ACK! HOLY SHIT! WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD!"

"Fine, fine, I'll drive like you American wankers."

Both said American wankers in the passenger seats breathed deep sighs of relief. "Who's dumb idea was it to let the European drive?" a very sleep-deprived Amelia grumbled. The last twenty-four hours of forced wakefulness had managed to deflate, decompose and destroy her usually peppy spirit.

"Uh, well, I think that was me," Alfred, often referred to as 'America' said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Lazy American berk," Rosa (typically called 'Britain' by those who, unlike her American companions, bothered to be intimidated by her identity as a country) grouched at him, her tone gentle and teasing, despite the harsh phrasing.

"Well, I was emotionally compromised!" America said defensively.

"He's my _brother, _Alfred, if anyone is going to be emotionally compromised by his kidnapping, I think it would be me," Britain pointed out.

Amelia, who could be called the United States, or perhaps Lady Liberty, but didn't like fancy titles and generally preferred the name 'Amelia', sighed at the two of them. Concern for Arthur, or 'England' as he insisted on being called, twisted in her stomach. She began to chew on her thumbnail. It was a terrible habit she thought she had broken when she was a child. Apparently this new problem had pushed her into resuming the unpleasant habit.

America disrupted her train of thought. "No, not that! I'm as concerned for Iggy as the next person-"

_Not as worried as I am. Not by a long shot. _Amelia thought uncharitably at him. The knots in her stomach tightened. She tried not to imagine what sort of horrible things could have happened to her friend, could be happening to him right now…

America was still talking. As usual, the words he was spitting out were rather absurd. "No, the season finale of _'Doctor Sexy, M.D' _was on last night and Doctor Sexy and that sexy-but-earnest female doctor decided to do that surgery on sexy-but-driven doctor's comatose husband. Y'know, the one that could save him, but could also wipe his memory of the last few years? It's an even more compelling plot-line because the husband turns out to be Doctor Sexy's long-lost half-brother who stands in the way of his passionate love for-"

"ALFRED STOP BEING AN INCONSIDERATE-!" at this point, Amelia and Britain, who had been speaking in unison, split off into hurling two different insults at the American. Amelia opted to go for the universally degrading "ass-hat" while Britain chose the slightly more refined (or at least more exotic) "wanker."

America looked wounded, "I was only trying to lighten the mood, take your minds off of things…"

Britain huffed. Amelia could practically see the thoughts drifting through the other woman's blonde head. They mostly ran along the lines of 'why the hell am I dating this arse-hole?' Amelia could also see the moment where Britain came to the grudging conclusion that America really was doing his best to keep their spirits up, albeit through slightly trashy hospital soap-operas.

"Alfred, just don't talk, love."

America's face crumpled even more. He looked like a puppy that had been left out in the rain. After about a minute he broke the silence. His voice was serious for once. Amelia could sense the shift in her brother's mood. The forced cheer dropped from his shoulders, leaving only a shadow of his usual manic energy. "Do you really think you can find Iggy, Rosa? I get that you guys have a bond, but I can barely find Amelia half the time when we're in the same house…"

Britain sighed and reached a gentle hand out to cup Alfred's cheek. "Don't worry, love," she said, stroking his cheek with the pad of her thumb, "Arthur and I have been a nation for a thousand years. There are things that come with age. One of those is a very tight bond. Our magic just makes it a more tangible bond. One that I can use to track the git."

America smiled and leaned into Britain's touch. "Thank you, Rosa. He's my best friend, and this is kind of my fault."

Amelia sighed, resisting the urge to gnaw at her already ragged thumbnail. It was both of their faults. They had accidentally printed out the wrong information about England's arrival time and thought he wouldn't be coming until the next day. It wasn't until Amelia checked her voicemail the next morning that she realized just how much she and America had screwed up. In a rush of panic they had asked Britain if she had any idea what had happened to the absent England. She too was in a state of panic, having received a garbled version of England's kidnapping in the form of a semi-prophetic dream. Without a thought, they grabbed the keys, left the Canadian siblings in charge of the house and drove off on a half-baked rescue mission.

They sat in silence, America occasionally expressing his tension by humming the _'Doctor Sexy, M.D'_ theme song. He didn't stop until Amelia kicked the back of his seat (bastard had called shotgun). They drove on. An hour or so passed. Amelia had almost dozed off, eyelids slowly drifting closed almost against her will when suddenly…

_Thud. CRASH! _

Something slammed into the side of their car, throwing them all to the side as they began to swerve, the car's body crunching and bending as whatever was attacking them beat at them over and over again. Pops and cracks resounded through the increasingly cramped cabin, punctuated by all three nations' vivid cursing. A purple light began to twist and bend around Britain's body as she began chanting in a dark, mysterious language. Suddenly whatever was harassing them drew back, an echoing roar enveloping them in response to Britain's spell-casting efforts. Black smoke swirled outside the car, visible through the tiny slivers of window-glass left un-cracked by the barrage.

Britain's purple light flickered and dimmed. Amelia, losing patience and realizing that they were losing time, yelled at her brother, "Alfred! Emergency brake!"

"Gotcha!" he bellowed back, yanking the brake, riding out the spinning and swerving as the car struggled to adjust to the sudden decrease in speed.

Once they stopped, Amelia kicked open her door, her supernatural strength taking the door clean off. She jumped out of the car and was suddenly surrounded by a thick fog of black smoke, the misty depths punctuated with flashes of angry, tormented red light. Sullen purple patches rose and fell within the cloud, fading and re-growing like strange, massive bruises.

She growled, "You asked for it," and reached into the depths of her bomber jacket. This was not an ordinary leather jacket. This had been a gift from England for her last birthday. It was enchanted. In a rare burst of magical competence, England had bespelled her jacket to provide her with an endless supply of whatever food she wanted. She normally wanted junk food. England frequently complained that she was using her gift for evil. The irritated, slightly offended look he would shoot her was just too cute. It made him look like a small, irritated cat. Needless to say, Amelia's bomber produced almost exclusively fast food.

What Amelia pulled from her jacket would go down in history as one of the weirdest weapons ever used to combat the forces of hell. She grabbed a super-sized order of McDonald's fries and chucked them, cardboard container and all, at the angry shadow. It wailed, the black smoke shredding and dissolving wherever the salt-laden fried potatoes touched it.

"Great idea, sis!" America shouted over the sound of the creature wailing. He pulled a baseball-bat-sized fry from the inside of his jacket. His jacket's food-producing properties were the result of his jealousy over Amelia's improved clothing. Wanting a similarly awesome bomber, America had invaded England and Britain's magic library and tried some enchanting of his own. It did not work quite right. As a result America's jacket's food-spawning abilities could be a bit… warped.

America began merrily bashing at the shadow-thing with his fry-bat. Amelia kept pulling containers of fries from her own jacket and hurling them at the creature. Britain struggled out of the car and resumed chanting, using the breathing space created by Amelia, America and their sodium-rich diets to get a better grip on her magic.

It was all going swimmingly until the shadow picked Britain up and hurled her into America, knocking him to the ground and the fry-bat out of his hands. Britain went silent. America lost his weapon, the fry-bat promptly crushed in a furious kamikaze strike from a particularly irate scrap of demon-smoke. Both of the incapacitated nations lay unmoving on the pavement. That left Amelia as the last defense. Somehow she didn't think that her improvised weapons were quite up to the job. Still hurling her super-sized fries at the darkness, she did something she almost never did. She prayed. It was a pretty shoddy, grudging and half-assed prayer, all things considered. But it was a prayer and it was heartfelt. In its own irreverent way. Dean Winchester would have been proud. Castiel, angel of the Lord, would have been disapproving. Sam Winchester would have been long-suffering (but there is not much stock to be put into this fact, though. It is common knowledge that Sam Winchester is _always _long-suffering).

"Um, I'm not sure how to do this… but… uh, now I lay me down to sleep? Nah, now I try to kick this creepy-ass shadow's butt. I pray the Lord to give me a hand here because things aren't looking too good. Your love and hopefully some kick-ass backup be with me until this shadow-thing's gone. And um, yeah, feel free to wake me with the morning light. It's all good. Amen?" Amelia did not have much faith in the prayer she had just uttered.

She did not really expect anything to happen. As far as she could tell from most religious leaders, God's intervention in your life is not supposed to be literal _intervention. _It's more of a 'here I'll help you help yourself' type thing. No religious leader had prepared her for the sudden appearance of an angel. Much less a short, slightly scruffy, skinny dude sucking on a lollipop and looking like he could use a haircut. He scanned the swirling, furious mass of darkness and whistled low and long.

"Wow-za, sister. It's is a good thing I was tuned into angel radio. That is one nasty mother."

"You're an angel?" Amelia raised an eyebrow, "Did God fire the guy in charge of quality-control or something?"

"Whoa, princess. I didn't do anything to you! And be glad you got me, I'm the fun angel! It could be worse, you could be having a really awkward conversation with a grumpy dude in a trenchcoat right now. But nooo, you got me and I brought candy! But none for you, because you're being rude."

Amelia gave a little snarl and hurled a particularly massive order of fries at the tendril of smog that attempted to sneak up on her and wrap itself around her middle.

The angel's eyes lit up. "FRENCH FRIES! Now we're in business!" he cracked his knuckles, spitting out his lollipop stick. Shaking out his hands he glowered up at the eye of the smoke-storm.

"Hey, laaadiiiieeesss. Lovely ladies! Beautiful ladies! Three Witchy Ladies! Is this really necessary? If you keep screwing around down here I'll have to do something about it. Just desserts and all." He tipped his head to the side as if listening to a response. His face twisted into an irritated expression, "Screw preemptive strike! This is just pathetic. No style, no flair. Just ham-handed attack and run. Pathetic. Now run along so I can go crush you later. Yes, crush. Your nonsense disrupted my lunch. I was having dinner and a show, thank you. Watching a guy get chased down Main Street by a hoard of angry clowns is always fun. Especially when you created the clowns. Parental pride and all. Not to mention… just desserts." The last two words were spoken with such menace Amelia almost forgot how small and insignificant the man had looked. He was a true angel. There was no mistaking it. Just a rather… unconventional one.

He unwrapped another lollipop, listening to what must the response.

His eyes glowed. Apparently the answer was not all he had hoped for. With an angry gesture, the lollipop he had been preparing to eat disappeared, replaced by a shining sliver sword. A single sweep of the blade, a flash of light. Amelia blacked out.

The next thing she knew she was being splashed with Coca-Cola by an irritated angel. "Get up, get up," he demanded.

Groaning, Amelia sat up, only to have a hand stuck in her face. She peered groggily up at the angel's face. He grinned sunnily at her. "You promised me fries. And if you're gonna be telling me about why the hell Macbethean Three Witches are off the stage and in the world, I think I deserve to go super-size."

Amelia sighed and handed over the fries. He fell on the proffered food like a hungry jackal, only pausing once between bites to grumble, "By the way, I'm Gabriel."

**Author's Note: Wow, it's been awhile since I updated. Last week was Thanksgiving here in the States and I was **_**busy. **_**Lots of stuff happening now that the holidays are here. I'm considering doing some Christmas one-shots for either Supernatural or Hetalia…**

**Anywho, here's this chapter. This was mostly about catching up with Rosa and the Americas, plus Gabriel and some of the Witches' powers needed to be introduced. May I say now, I love Supernatural's Gabriel. He is hilarious. I know that according to canon he should be dead by this point, but I'm kind of defying canon timeline for this fic. Just think of it as an AU which exists outside of the timeline.**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I see that people visit this story, but I like knowing what you all think about it. Hearing from people makes my day, it really does. See you next chapter!**


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